LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SOMETIME AND OTHER POEMS 



^OMETlME-AND-OTttEf^ 
FOEMS- BY /AAY RILEY 





NwYokk- -Anson D T- KAriDOLPrt • atid- Company- 
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Copyright, 1803, 
By Anson D. F. Randolph & Company 

(INCORPORATED). 



3Enifaersitg Press: ■ 
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 



To him whose praises make my heart more vain 

Than any recompense my life can know, 
Whose patient hands, through every doubt and pain, 

Make easy places where my feet may go ; 
And to the child, whose life has been to me 

The sweetest flower my bosom ever wore , 
Whose little elbow leans upon my knee, — 

The lightest burden mother ever bore! — 
To these, the sharers of my household throne, 

Whose names within my prayers together stand, 
I dedicate what always is their own, — 

The pleasant labor of my unskilled hand. 



• 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Sometime u 

Ye Have Done it Unto Me 15 

When We Pray 20 

Cross-Purposes - . 22 

My Uninvited Guest 25 

His Name 29 

If this were Twenty Centuries Ago. . 32 

The Slighted Flowers 35 

Mary Wakefield 37 

The Weary Model 44 

Parting Comrades 49 

Unseen Guests 51 

Threescore and Ten 55 

A March Wedding 58 

A Gift of Gentians 6o 

His Birthday 62 

Coming Home 65 

A Thanksgiving Prayer 68 

The Inn of Rest 71 

A Stradivarius Violin 74 



8 Contents. 

Page 

An October Banquet . 76 

Trust 77 

The Perfect Niche 79 

Christ Has Risen 82 

Behold, I Stand at the Door .... 84 

Dead Birds and Easter 86 

Purple Aster 91 

Aurora Borealis 92 

Mexico 94 

Weakness 96 

Some Violets 98 

We are Unfaithful 100 

The Burial of Abraham Lincoln . . . 102 

Criticism 105 

White Violets 108 

In Prison 111 

My Slighted Guest 115 

A Flower Sermon 117 

The New Message 119 

Christmas Roses 123 

Average People 125 

March 127 

Disproved 130 

Sailing Away 132 

If I Could Choose 134 

Good-By 137 

My Cup Runneth Over 139 



Contents. 9 

Page 

In Extremis 141 

Melancholy Days 143 

Snow Flakes 145 

The Rain 147 

A Pompeian Preacher 149 

Expiation 152 

What Will it Matter? ....... 156 

Your Birthday 158 

Easter Day .163 

O Bells in the Steeple . 165 

In Silence . 168 



SOMETIME. 




OMETIME, when all life's les- 
sons have been learned, 
And sun and stars forever- 
more have set, 
The things which our weak judgments 
here have spurned, 
The things o'er which we grieved with 
lashes wet, 
Will flash before us out of life's dark 
night, 
As stars shine most in deeper tints of 
blue ; 
And we shall see how all God's plans 
are right, 
And how what seemed reproof was 
love most true. 



12 Sometime. 

And we shall see how, while we frown 
and sigh, 
God's plans go on as best for you 
and me, — 
How, when we called, he needed not 
our cry, 
Because his wisdom to the end could 
see. 
And even as wise parents disallow 

Too much of sweet to craving baby- 
hood, — 
So God, perhaps, is keeping from us 
now 
Life's sweetest things, because it seem- 
eth good. 

And if sometimes, commingled with 
life's wine, 
We find the wormwood, and rebel and 
shrink, 
Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine 
Pours out this potion for our lips to 
drink. 



Sometime, 13 

And if some friend you love is lying 
low, 
Where human kisses cannot reach his 
face, 
Oh, do not blame the loving Father so, 
But wear your sorrow with obedient 
grace ! 

And you shall shortly know that length- 
ened breath 
Is not the sweetest gift God sends his 
friend ; 
And that sometimes the sable pall of 
death 
Conceals the fairest boon his love 
can send. 
If we could push ajar the gates of life, 
And stand within and all God's work- 
ings see, 
We could interpret all this doubt and 
strife, 
And for each mystery could find a 
key ! 



T4 Sometime. 

But not to-day. Then be content, poor 
heart ! 
God's plans, like lilies pure and white, 
unfold ; 
We must not tear the close-shut leaves 
apart, — 
Time will reveal the chalices of gold. 
And if, through patient toil, we reach 
the land 
Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, 
may rest, 
When we shall clearly see and under- 
stand, 
I think that we will say, " God knew 
the best ! " 



"YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ME." 



REMBLING she stood at the 
heavenly door, — 
The world around her was 
strange and new ; 
She had come through the dark from 
the earthly shore, 
And how should a pilgrim know what 
to do, — 
Whether to knock, or whether to wait, 
When she finds herself at the shining 
Gate? 

"Thou hast crossed the Valley," an 
angel said, 
Touching the pilgrim's dampened 
hair, — 



1 6 "Ye have done it unto Me." 

11 The lonely valley which travellers 

dread, 
As hither they wend from the land 

of Care. 
Wouldst thou greet the King? Dost 

wear his sign? 
Hast thou steadfast held to thy faith 

and shrine? " 

" It is many a year," the pilgrim sighed, 
" Since I have thought upon faith 
and creed; 
The burdened and poor at my threshold 
cried ; 
Had I time to study my lesser need? 
And when I would pray for my own 

soul's good, 
They interrupted with cries for food. 

" I should lift my head from the Father's 
breast, 
If I were in heaven, and heard their 
cry; 



" Ye have done it unto Me." 1 7 

How could I selfishly take my rest, 
Thinking of wearier ones than I? 
I would slip from the ranks of the 

undefiled 
To comfort the woes of a little child ! " 

" Peace ! Has the Father forsaken his 
throne?" 
The angel answered with stern sur- 
prise. 

" Has his arm grown short, that he 
needs thy own, — 
Have the woes of the world escaped 
his eyes? 

But see ! the Master himself draws 
near, — 

Thy foolish story hath reached his ear," 

The woman lifted her troubled brow. 
And the mists of earth from her 

spirit fell ; 
No stranger's face did she gaze on 

now, — 



i8 " Ye have done it unto Me." 

She knew the Christ; she had loved 

Him well ; 
She had met those eyes, with their 

tender grace, 
On the earth in many a suffering face ! 

They had often looked from a beggar's 

hood, 
From under a motherless baby's hair; 
They had pierced her often, reproached 

her, wooed, — 
Had beckoned her here, had followed 

her there ; 
In many and many a strange disguise 
She had met the gaze of those pleading 

eyes ! 

His voice was sweet to the tired one ; 
His touch was balm to her down-bent 
head, — 
" What thou to the least of my poor 
hast done, 



" Ye have done it unto Me." 19 

Thou hast done unto me," he gently 

said. 
" In my Father's house there are many 

rooms ; " 
And He led her in from the earthly 

glooms. 



WHEN WE PRAY. 



? m 



S tired children go at candle- 
light,— 
The glow in their young eyes 
quenched with the sun, 
Almost too languid, now that play is 
done, 
To seek their father's knee, and say 

" good-night," — 
So, to our greater Father out of sight, 
When the brief gamut of the day is 

run, 
Defeats endured, and petty triumphs 
won, 
We kneel and listlessly his care invite. 



When we Pray. 21 

Then, with no sense of gain, — no ten- 
der thrill, 

As when we leave the presence of a 
friend ; 

No lingering content our souls to 
steep, — 
But reckoning our gains and losses still, 

We turn the leaf upon the dull day's 
end, 

And, oarless, drift out to the sea of 
sleep. 



CROSS-PURPOSES. 



^^^jHAT sorrow we should beckon 



\>\m unawares, 

'^^ What stinging nettles in our 



path would grow, 
If God should answer all our thought- 
less prayers, 
Or bring to harvest the poor seed we 
sow ! 

The storm for which you prayed, whose 
kindly shock 
Revived your fields and blessed the 
fainting air, 
Drove a strong ship upon the cruel 
rock, 
And one I loved went down in ship- 
wreck there. 



Cross-purposes. 23 

I ask for sunshine on my grapes to-day; 

You plead for rain to kiss your 

drooping flowers ; 

And thus within God's patient hand we 

lay 

These intricate cross-purposes of ours. 

I greeted with cold grace and doubting 

fears 
The guest who proved an angel at my 

side; 
And I have shed more bitter, burning 

tears 
Because of hopes fulfilled than prayers 

denied. 

Then be not clamorous, O restless soul, 
But hold thy trust in God's eternal 
plan; 
He views our life's dull weaving as a 
whole, — 
Only its tangled threads are seen by 
man ! 



24 Cross purposes. 

Dear Lord, vain repetitions are not meet 
When we would bring our messages 

to thee; 
Help us to lay them, then, at thy dear 

feet 
In acquiescence, not garrulity. 



MY UNINVITED GUEST. 




NE day there entered at my 
chamber door 
A presence whose light foot- 
fall on the floor 
No token gave ; and, ere I could with- 
stand, 
Within her clasp she drew my trembling 
hand. 

" Intrusive guest," I cried, " my palm I 

lend 
But to the gracious pressure of a 

friend ! 
Why comest thou, unbidden and in 

gloom, 
Trailing thy cold gray garments in my 

room? 



26 My Uninvited Guest. 

11 1 know thee, Pain ! Thou art the sul- 
len foe 

Of every sweet enjoyment here below ; 

Thou art the comrade and ally of Death, 

And timid mortals shrink from thy cold 
breath. 

11 No fragrant balms grow in thy garden 

beds, 
Nor slumbrous poppies droop their 

crimson heads ; 
And well I know thou comest to me 

now 
To bind thy burning chains upon my 

brow ! " 

And though my puny will stood 
straightly up, 

From that day forth I drank her pun- 
gent cup, 

And ate her bitter bread, — with leaves 
of rue, 

Which in her sunless gardens rankly 
grew. 



My Uninvited Guest. 27 

And now, so long it is, I scarce can 

tell 
When Pain within my chamber came to 

dwell ; 
And though she is not fair of mien or 

face, 
She hath attracted to my humble place 

A company most gracious and refined, 
Whose touches are like balm, whose 

voices kind : 
Sweet Sympathy, with box of ointment 

rare ; 
Courage, who sings while she sits 

weaving there ; 

Brave Patience, whom my heart esteem- 

eth much, 
And who hath wondrous virtue in her 

touch. 
Such is the chaste and sweet society 
Which Pain, my faithful foe, hath 

brought to me. 



2 8 My Uninvited Guest. 

And now upon my threshold there she 

stands, 
Reaching to me her rough yet kindly 

hands 
In silent truce. Thus for a time we 

part, 
And a great gladness overflows my 

heart ; 

For she is so ungentle in her way 
That no host welcomes her or bids her 

stay; 
Yet, though men bolt and bar their 

house from thee, 
To every door, O Pain, thou hast a key ! 



HIS NAME. 




jHEN I shall go where my 
Redeemer is, 
-- In the far City, on the other 
side, 
And at the threshold of his palaces 

Shall loose my sandals, ever to abide, 
I know my Heavenly King will smiling 

wait 
To give me welcome as I reach the 
gate. 

Oh, joy ! oh, bliss ! for I shall see his 

face, 
And wear his blessed Name upon my 

brow, — 
That Name which stands for pardon, 

love, and grace, — 



30 His Name. 

That Name before which every knee 
shall bow ; 
No music half so sweet can ever be, 
As that dear Name which he shall 
write for me ! 



Crowned with this royal signet, I shall 

walk 
With lifted forehead through the 

eternal street, 
And with a holier mien and gentler 

talk 
Will tell my story to the friends I 

meet, — 
Of how the King did stoop his Name 

to write 
Upon my brow in characters of light. 

Then, till I go to meet my Father's 
smile, 
I '11 keep my forehead smooth from 
passion's scars, — 



His Name. 31 

From angry frowns that trample and 

defile, 
And every sin that desecrates and 

mars, 
That I may lift a face unflushed with 

shame, 
Whereon my Lord may write his holy 

Name ! 



IF THIS WERE TWENTY CENTURIES 
AGO. 




F this were twenty centuries 
ago, 
And three wise men should 
seek my house, and say : 
" We bring glad tidings ! Christ is 

born to-day ; 
Arise, and follow yonder star, whose 

glow 
Will lead you to the child ! "— would I 

obey, 
If this were twenty centuries ago? 



From out my urn of precious, hoarded 

things 
Would I make haste to pour the richest 

share 



If this were Twenty Centuries Ago. 33 

For him? The sweetest of my per- 
fumes spare 

To bathe the feet of the young King of 
kings? 

Or break the costliest ointment on his 
hair 

From out my urn of precious, hoarded 
things? 

Alas ! I dare not say this would I do, 
Since I have slighted many another 

guest 
That came from God, — have stayed 

from many a quest 
That would have led me to the good 

and true, 
To slumber on with head upon my 

breast ; 
Nay, nay ! I dare not say this would I do. 

My best resolves like shifting shadows 

are; 
Each day some holy light shines on 

unsought, — 



34 If this were Twenty Centuries Ago. 

And while my silly, fluttering wings are 

caught 
By the world's rosy candle, Christ's 

own star — 
How can I tell? — might beckon me for 

naught; 
My best resolves like shifting shadows 

are. 

And when Christ comes again, — as 

come he will — 
And wise ones hasten forth with rapt 

delight 
To welcome him, and own his kingly 

right, 
Will men be questioning and doubting 

still, 
As when upon that first, far Christmas 

night, — 
When Christ shall come again, — as 

come he will? 




THE SLIGHTED FLOWERS. 



HE slept; and the dream of 
Heaven 
With its rapturous surprise, 



Had folded the silken lashes 

Over the tender eyes; 
And the peace which passeth knowl- 
edge 

Seemed, to our mortal sight, 
To circle the pallid forehead 

With a ring of holy light. 

She lay while we piled the lilies, 
Like drifts of odorous snow, 

On the breast whose thoughts were 
whiter 
Than milkiest flowers that blow. 



$6 The Slighted Flowers. 

We braided them in her tresses, 
Their petals caressed her face, 

But she who had loved the lilies 
Was heedless now of their grace. 

She slighted the timid beauty 

Of violets, chaste and sweet, 
That trailed like a purple ribbon 

From girdle to unshod feet. 
And she uttered no word of chiding, 

When we crushed a rose in our hand ; 
So we knew by these silent tokens 

She had gone to the Unknown Land. 



MARY WAKEFIELD. 




GAINST the painted hell of 
Angelo 
I set this living picture of 
despair: 
A burning ship, strong men distraught 
with woe, 
Rough seamen's oaths, which meant 
not oaths, but prayer; 
White pleading faces, little children's 

cries, 
And women's arms flung upward to 
the skies ! 



38 Mary Wakefield. 

Along the burning deck a woman 

sped 
While the red horror close and closer 

pressed 
Until its hot breath scorched her baby's 

head, 
Hiding itself within her throbbing 

breast; 
When, shrinking backward from the 

flames' mad' kiss, 
She reeled into the water's black abyss ! 

Poor mother ! Was it granted her to 

see, 
Ere sight was veiled by the engulfing 

wave, 
The noble girl whose arms so lustily 
Wrested from her the babe she could 

not save; 
And dared, in a baptismal scene so 

wild, 
To stand as sponsor to this orphaned 

child? 



Mary Wakefield. 39 

And this was Mary Wakefield. Daunt- 
less girl, 
Who, with a child across her shoulder 
thrown, 

Set out to wage with death against the 
whirl 
Of those mad waves, hand-fettered 
and alone ! 

A deed that gave her right to stand erect 

With seraphim, nor show them disre- 
spect! 

With one firm hand she held against 

the tide 
The sobbing child. The other tightly 

grasped 
A fender swinging from the steamer's 

side, 
By a stout cable to the railing clasped ; 
She drew the heavy beam on inch by 

inch 
Toward the nearest flame, nor did she 

flinch 



40 Mary Wakefield. 

Though the hot tongues came hissing 

at her brow. 
With patient toil she guided on the 

rope 
To where the flame could bite at it; and 

now 
She has the joyful answer to her hope ! 
It burns asunder, and the heavy beam 
Drops down before her into the black 

stream ! 

Upon this strange steed's back she then 

set down 
The little child. And pushing on 

before 
Holding between her teeth the baby's 

gown, 
She struck out bravely for the distant 

shore, 
A league away, with well-aimed, steady 

strides, 
While on its dripping steed the baby 

rides ! 



Mary Wakefield. 41 

As rose and fell the girl's white oars, 
the rain 
Thrummed its dull monotone. The 
thunders rolled 

Their heavy drums. The wind swept 
a refrain. 
Some distant bells the hour of mid- 
night told. 

And now and then the lightning's vivid 
thread 

Through the thick darkness wove a 
seam of red ! 

Strong men went shuddering down to 

death that night, 
Whose arms were like to knitted 

strands of steel, 
While this slight girl waged an unequal 

fight 
For two — making no loud appeal 
To God, but praying mutely with her 

arms, 
Seeking the while to sooth the child's 

alarms ! 



42 Mary Wakefield. 

" Hush, little one ! Home is not far 

away, 
And I am here holding you by your 

gown, 
Just as old Rover holds you when at 

play; 
And with my strong arms plashing 

up and down, 
I make your queer horse gallop to the 

shore, 
And baby shall be cold and wet no 

more ! " 

Then, with a tenderness almost divine, 
She tried to thrust a merry nursery 
song 

Through her shut teeth ; and while 
each panting line 
Smote on her jaded breath like smart- 
ing thong, 

I think God ringed her with an unseen 
crown, 

And every face in heaven bent softly 
down ! 



Mary Wakefield. 43 

And thus she won the shore. There on 

the sands 
A seaman lay, half naked, cold and 

faint. 
Unfastening her gown with shivering 

hands, 
She laid it on him. Then this gentle 

saint 
Lifted the sleeping baby to her breast, 
And toiled, half-fainting, to a place of 

rest! 




THE WEARY MODEL. 

NE day, an artist in his studio, 
Upon his model draped a 
quaint old gown, 
Of some rare Indian stuff, wove long 
ago 
Of countless mellow shades of gold 
and brown, — 
Sunshine and shadow, like the shining 

hair 
That Raphael made his sweet Madonnas 
wear. 

Silent and passive, as if carved of stone, 
Stood the young model in her love- 
liness; 



The Weary Model. 45 

For now the tireless artist sought alone 
To paint the gold-brown shimmer of 

the dress ; 
Nor must she stir the robe which flashed 

and shone, — 
Hers to be patient and be wrought 

upon. 

At last the sinuous folds were all com- 
plete ; 
Like a soft wave they bathed the 
pliant girl, 

And, rippling from the shoulders to the 
feet, 
Fell on the carpet in a silken swirl : 

And then the painter on his canvas 
wrought, 

Trying to paint the language of his 
thought. 

All day the magic colors softly flowed, 
Until it seemed as if some wondrous 
spell 



46 The Weary Model. 

Possessed the hour, and like a radiance 

glowed 
In the fair lines that on his canvas 

fell: 
And as the hours, down-shod, went 

slipping past, 
His dream of fame seemed blossoming 

at last. 

See how the witchery of that old dress 
Makes a soft mirror of the canvas, 

where, 
The artist, with a lover's tenderness, 
Bestows faint glints of lustre here and 

there ! 
Almost to his quick fancy the folds 

stir 
With their old scents of rosemary and 

myrrh ! 

Just then the weary girl forgetful grew 
And swept a hand along each flowing 
line, 



The Weary Model. 47 

Alas, a hundred ripples straightway flew 

In answer to that little heedless sign ! 

The glistening folds were changed from 

belt to hem, 
All the familiar grace gone out of them. 

The startled girl looked in the artist's 

face 
And read the story of his loss and 

pain. 
She could not call the lines back to 

their place, 
Regret and sighing were alike in 

vain. 
Naught can revive an inspiration dead ; 
The golden vision had forever fled ! 

What lesson, O my soul, is here for 
thee 
That chideth this poor model over- 
much? 

To stand henceforth more still and 
patiently 



48 The Weary Model. 

Beneath the fashioning of God's fine 

touch! 
For ah, what grace by the Great Artist 

planned 
Has been effaced by thy impatient 

hand ! 



PARTING COMRADES. 



h» 



DIEU, kind Life, though thou 
hast often been 
Lavish of quip, and scant of 
courtesy, 
Beneath thy roughness I have found in 

thee 
A host who doth my parting favor 
win. 
Friend, teacher, sage, and sometimes 
harlequin, 
Thine every mood hath held some good 

for me, — 
Nor ever friendlier seemed thy company 
Than on this night when I must quit 
thine inn. 

4 



50 Parting Comrades. 

I love thee, Life, in spite of thy rude 

ways ! 
Dear is thy pleasant house, so long 

my home. 
I thank thee for the hospitable days, 
The friends, the rugged cheer. Then, 

landlord, come ! 
Pour me a stirrup cup, — our parting 

nears ; 
I ever liked thy wine, though salt with 

tears. 



UNSEEN GUESTS. 




E have come back — the absent 
whom you miss — 
To pledge with you before the 
feast is done : 
You do not feel our tender clasp and 

kiss, 
Nor hear us softly enter one by one. 
Your voices drown our signals faint and 

low, 
But pledge your unseen guests before 
you go. 

We waft our souls to you as thistle- 
blooms 

Launch on the winds their airy mar- 
iners, — 

O Hearts ! Spread wide for us your 
pleasant rooms, 



52 Unseen Guests. 

Nor coldly greet the eager travellers ! 
From your fair loving cup a draught 

bestow 
On friends of " auld lang syne," before 

you go. 

Our memory spells the very flowers you 

wear, — 
The roses in their crystal chalices ! 
She knows the tricks of speech, of eyes, 

of hair: — 
Ah ! 't is a faithful tapestry she weaves ! 
And since so fair and true her colors 

show, 
Then fill to Memory before you go. 

And who can tell? Perhaps they too 
are here, — 

Our angels whom we wrongly name our 
dead ! 

Leaving their bliss awhile to linger near 

Some heart that joy hath left unten- 
anted. 



Unseen Guests. 53 

Ah, friends ! They may be nearer than 

we know, 
Then pledge them tenderly before you 

go! 

Why do we call them dead from whose 

hot grasp 
God kindly takes a tear-embittered bowl, 
And sets instead within the longing 

clasp 
His perfect cup of rapture? Nay, sad 

soul ! 
Name not God's richest gift to mortals so, 
But quaff to Life, full Life, before you 

go! 

Love is the pilot of our silent crew; 
No boat so stanch, no sails so trim and 

white. 
Full well he knew the path that led to 

you 
Through trackless air, and sea, and 

moonless night. 



54 Unseen Guests. 

Nor aught cares he how wild the March 

winds blow ! 
Then fill a glass to Love before you 

go. 

Good-bye ! Good-bye ! though Love 

hath many ports 
Where winds are soft and ships may lie 

at rest, 
Home is the sheltered bay he fondliest 

courts, — 
Home is the little harbor he loves best. 
Hither we sail away, — yo ho ! yo ho ! 
Then drain the glass to Home before 

you go. 



THREESCORE AND TEN. 




AM past my threescore years 
and ten ; 
I have quaffed full cups of 
bliss and bane; 
Grown drunk on folly like other men, 

With its present sweet and after-pain ; 
I have had my share of cloud and sun; 
And what is it all, when all is done? 



We have had our frolic, Life and I ; 

Jovial comrades we used to be. 
Full sails to-day, with a silver sky, 

Anon dead calm and a sullen sea. 
Now I fear the waves, so I hug the 

shore 
With my tattered sail and broken oar. 



56 Threescore and Ten. 

I have worn love's flower upon my breast, 
And said my prayers to a woman's 
face- 
The saints forgive us ! If men addressed 

Such orisons to the heavenly Grace, 
They would upward mount, as strong 

birds do, 
And answer bring from the heavenly 
blue! 

I have known the best that life can hold 
Of fame and fortune, love and power. 
And when my riotous blood grew cold, 
I cheered with books the lingering 
hour; 
Banqueting on the costly wine 
Which Genius pours from her flagons 
fine. 

Yet I would rather lie to-day 

Where orchard blooms drift down 
their snow, 
And feel lost youth in my pulses play, 



Threescore and Ten. 57 

Its rosy wine in my hot cheeks glow ; 
I would rather be young, — and foolish, 

forsooth, — 
Than own the baubles we buy with 
youth. 

I would barter fortune, fame, and power, 
All knowledge gained of books and 
men, 
For my old delight at the first spring 
flower, 
A robin's egg, or a captured wren 
From its nest hid under the tossing 

plume 
Of a sweet, old-fashioned lilac bloom. 

With the world's stale feast I am sur- 
feited ; 

I long to-day for the old-time thrill 
At the purple pomp of a pansy bed, 

Or the fresh spring scent of a daffodil. 
Alas, I shall never be thrilled again ! 
I am old, — yes, past threescore and ten. 



A MARCH WEDDING. 




MPATIENT lovers, have you 
then no care 
That summer holds a month 
divinely fair; 
When laughing brooks and softly whis- 
pering trees 
Chime with the tune of birds and hum 

of bees ; 
When color light, and perfume every- 
where, 
Toss out their sumptuous banners to 

the air? 
Wait, then, for June, and pin the bridal 

veil 
With hyacinths and lilies sweet and 
pale. 



A March Wedding. 59 

And yet, what matter how the March 

winds blow? 
You make your own fair summer as 

you go; 
Love hath, like death, all seasons for 

her own, 
And in each month sets up her rosy 

throne. 
And I, — worn, weary, and oppressed 

with care, 
The dust of travel white upon my 

hair, — 
Would give the listless years now left 

to me 
For one swift moment of your ecstasy ! 



A GIFT OF GENTIANS. 



5^ 




E timid, fluttering things, whose 
fringes rare 
Are dipped in colors drawn 
from babies' eyes ; 
Whose robe of gossamer is spun of air, 
In the same loom with June's deli- 
cious skies ; 
Whose dainty hems, and skirts so silken 
fine, 
The fairies trust no awkward brush to 
trace ; 
Much do I marvel that, with added line, 
A mortal's hand can paint each flower- 
face ! 
But know you not the one who sought 
you out 



A Gift of Gentians. 61 

Holds in his palm such magic strong 
and fine 
That it has even wrapped thy grace 
about 
With something more delightful and 
divine? 
And so, with glad obeisance, do I greet 
Our first acquaintance, — tender, blue- 
eyed things ! 
For with a benediction good and sweet, 
You fold within my hands your 
feathery wings. 
And from this day your azure wells 
shall be 
The mirror of a face so true and 
good, 
Your sweet suggestions can but be to 
me 
The impulse to a better womanhood ! 



HIS BIRTHDAY. 




HE day the Christ-child's tender 



eyes 
Unveiled their beauty on the 
earth, 
God lit a new star in the skies 

To flash the message of his birth; 
And wise men read the glowing sign, 
And came to greet the Child divine. 



Low kneeling in the stable's gloom 
Their precious treasures they un- 
rolled ; 

The place was rich with sweet perfume ; 
Upon the floor lay gifts of gold. 

And thus, adoring, they did bring 

To Christ the earliest offering. 



His Birthday. 63 

I think no nimbus wreathed the head 
Of the young King so rudely throned; 

The quilt of hay beneath him spread 
The sleepy kine beside him owned ; 

And here and there in the torn thatch 

The sky thrust in a starry patch. 

Oh, when was new-born monarch 
shrined 

Within such canopy as this? 
The birds have cradles feather-lined; 

And for their new babes princesses 
Have sheets of lace without a flaw, — 
His pillow was a wisp of straw ! 

He chose this way, it may have been, 
That those poor mothers, everywhere, 

Whose babies in the world's great inn 
Find scanty cradle-room and fare, 

As did the babe of Bethlehem, 

May find somewhat to comfort them. 



64 His Birthday. 

Thus was he born. And since that time 
We crown the day with wreath and 
song ; 

The bells laugh out in merry chime, 
And he his royal Guest doth wrong 

Who welcomes him with gloomy fears, 

Or salts the birthday feast with tears. 



COMING HOME. 




HAVE come to the dear old 
threshold, 
With eager, hurrying feet, 
To scent the odorous lilies 

That once were so white and sweet. 
To taste the apricots mellow 

That crimson the garden wall ; 
To gather the golden pippins 
That down in the orchard fall. 

I passed by the uncut hedges, 

And up through the thistled walk, 
And beside the fall of my footsteps 

There was only the crickets' talk. 
The weeds grew high in the arbor, 

And the nettles, rank and tall, 
Had throttled the sweet-breathed lilies 

That leaned on the latticed wall. 
5 



66 Coming Home. 

The little white house is empty, 

Its ceilings are cobwebbed o'er, 
And the dust and mould are lying 

Thick on the trackless floor. 
There are no prints in the doorway, 

No garments hung in the hall, 
And the ghosts of death and silence 

Sit and gloat over all ! 

No eager faces of children 

Brightened the window-pane, 
Never a peal of laughter 

Rippled along the lane ; 
So I turned through the daisies yellow, 

That nodded to see me pass, 
To seek for the mellow pippins 

That drop in the orchard grass. 

But I found a worm in my apples, 
And flung them sadly away ; 

The pool that I thought eternal 
All foul and poisonous lay. 



Coming Home. 67 

A black snake crept from its hiding 
And hissed in the marshes wild, 

And I bent my head in the rushes 
And sobbed like a homesick child ! 



A THANKSGIVING PRAYER. 



^^OR toil that is a medicine for 
woe, 




For strength that grows with 
every lifted cross, 
For thorns, since with each thorn a rose 
did grow, 
For gain that I have wrongly reck- 
oned loss, 
For ignorance, where it were harm to 
know, — 
Teach me to thank thee, Lord. 

For cups of honeyed pleasure thou 

didst spill 
Before their foam had quenched my 

purer sense ; 
For that my soul has power to struggle 

still, 



A Thanksgiving Prayer, 69 

Though panting in the trappings of 

pretence ; 
And for mistakes that saved from 

greater ill, — 
Teach me to thank thee, Lord. 

That thou dost ravel out the tinselled 
thread 
Of my poor work I thought so bravely 
done ; 
That thou dost show me every 'flimsy 
shred 
In the thin coat of honor I have 
spun, 
And pluck'st the slender garland from 
my head, — 
Teach me to thank thee, Lord. 

For ills averted, all unseen by me, 

For darkened days that healed my 
dazzled eyes, 

For suffering which brought a com- 
pany 



! 



70 A Thanksgiving Prayer. 

Of gentle ministers, in stern disguise; 
For weariness, which made me lean on 
thee, — 
Teach me to thank thee, Lord. 

For chalices of tears that thou dost 
pour, 
For unrequited love and wounded 
pride; 
If they but tempt my lonesome heart 
the moie 
To seek the faithful shelter of thy 
side ; 
For homelessness, which drives me to 
thy door, — 
Teach me to thank thee, Lord. 



THE INN OF REST. 




OILING among my garden 
thorns one day, 
While in a stirless swoon the 
hot air lay, 
A traveller passed toward the glowing 

west, 
Who seemed intent upon some' cheer- 
ful quest, 
For with a song he did beguile the way. 
Perhaps some question stirred within 

my eyes, 
For thus he spake : " In yonder valley 
lies, 
Among the murmurous trees, the Inn 
called Rest; 
Where all the pillows are with poppies 

strewn, 
Where toil-worn feet are shod with 
silken shoon, 



72 The Inn of Rest . 

And bed of down awaits each jaded 

guest; 
I haste at this good Inn to make request, 
For see ! the dial marks the hour of 

noon." 
"God grant," I cried, "you reach 
that threshold soon ! " 

The singer passed, and in the winding 

lane 
I lost at length the thread of his 
refrain. 
One Sabbath eve, consoled and com- 
forted 
By chant and prayer at vesper-service 
said, 
With a Laus Deo thrilling through my 
pain, 
I left the church, and careless where 

I went, 
Behind its ivied walls my footsteps 
bent, 
Among the low green tents where dwell 
the dead. 



The Inn of Rest. 73 

The chill winds sobbed among the 

grasses sere 
Which thatched the narrow roofs. 

The sky was drear, 
And drops of rain fell on my down-bent 

head. 
Turning to go, upon a stone I read 
A name, and dropped upon these 

words a tear : 
" He sought an Inn of Rest, and 

found it — here." 




A STRADIVARIUS VIOLIN. 

HE music of this ancient violin 
Is haunted as men's chambers 
sometimes are. 
Along the liquid ladder of each bar 
Phantoms of pleasure dance ; Regret 

steals in, 
With happier ghosts, and Fate her 
wheel doth spin. 
Torn butterflies of hope a breath did 

mar 
Here flutter, like the flame within a star. 
And if thou wouldst, O soul, nepenthe 

win, 
Pause not beside this portal, lest thou 

hear 
The voice of thy dead sorrow whis- 
pering near ! 



A Stradivarius Violin. 75 

For every passion that thy life hath 

known, — 
Anguish benumbed, and love thou 
thought'st flown, — 
Among these peerless octaves veiled, 

wait 
To speak to thee across the stringed 
gate. 



AN OCTOBER BANQUET. 




ITH many a curve of her brown 
wrist, 
The hospitable vine, 
In clustered bowls of amethyst, 
Hands down her unpressed wine. 

A gentle courtesy is here; 

She works her guests no ill ; 
The simple goblet she confers 

Imparts no fever-thrill. 

I fling the drained and broken cups 

Among the garden trees ; 
While butterfly comes down and sups 

Upon the honeyed lees. 



TRUST. 




ITHIN the slender chalice of 
thy hand 
Hold fast what I give thee ; 
and drop down, too, 
The fringes of those tender flowers 
of blue, — 
Thy wondering eyes, — nor question 

nor withstand 
What I may give. Perhaps my love 
hath planned 
Some sweet surprise, or test if love 

be true. 
What if it be a sprig of bitterest rue, 
A swift, strange summons to an un- 
known land, 
A hurting thorn, a cross? Strange 
gifts, I know, 



78 Trust. 

For love to bring ; but wouldst thou 

trust me still? 
Quick, dear, — thine answer ! 

M I should trust until 
The hidden meaning in thy gift should 
show." 
Ah, sweet ! when God sends just 

such gifts to thee 
Canst thou not answer him as thou 
dost me? 




THE PERFECT NICHE. 

IKE some rare structure seen 
but in our dreams, 
And builded of aerial warp 
and woof, 
Milan Cathedral to my vision seems, 
With its fair towers and transcendent 
roof. 

I see it now as on that perfect day, 
When last I climbed to where its 
glistening spires, 
Like a great field of sculptured lilies 
lay, 
Fadeless and bright beneath the 
noonday fires. 



8o The Perfect Niche. 

Through the rich fretwork the Italian 
sky 
Thrusts its fine color, like an azure 
flower ; 
And in the silent night the stars on high 
Hang their soft lamps within each 
slender tower. 

And niched away within the airy loft, 
Where the bell's clamor wounds the 
quiet air, 
And the world's noises grow subdued 
and soft 
When they have climbed to the white 
chambers there, — 

Within an arch, enriched with chiselled 
lace, 
Is a pure image, by Canova wrought, 
Where none may mount its snowy lines 
to trace, 
Or read the graceful language of his 
thought. 



The Perfect Niche, 81 

Art may not slake her eager, burning 
gaze 
Beside this frozen fountain of delight ; 
Nor golden hammer break the carven 
vase 
That hides the costly incense from 
our sight. 

Like one white petal of a perfect bloom, 
Enfolded where no human eye can see, 
Canova's statue stands through sun and 
gloom, 
And makes its shrine a snowy har- 
mony. 

O life, my life ! that cravest larger 
place, 
Prating of rusted gifts, of pinioned 
feet, 
Peace ! — thou wilt need thine own and 
borrowed grace, 
If thou wouldst make thy narrow 
niche complete. 
6 



CHRIST HAS RISEN! 




sad-faced mourners, who each 
day are wending 
J Through churchyard paths of 
cypress and of yew, 
Leave, for to-day, the low graves you 
are tending, 
And lift your eyes to God's eternal 
blue! 



Leave, for to-day, all murmuring and 
sadness ; 
Twine Easter lilies, and not aspho- 
dels ; 
Let your souls answer to the thrill of 
gladness, 
And to the melody of Easter bells. 



Christ Has Risen! 8$ 

If Christ were still within the grave's 
low prison, — 
A captive to the enemy you dread ; 
If from that mouldering cell he had not 
risen, 
Who then could chide the bitter tears 
you shed? 

Poor hearts ! the butterfly, with pinions 
golden, 
Spurns the gray cell which erst its 
freedom barred ; 
And the freed soul, with wings no 
longer holden, 
Shines back on life as on a broken 
shard. 

If Christ were dead, you would have, 
need to sorrow; 
But he has risen, and conquered 
death for aye ! 
Then dry your tears, if only till the 
morrow ; 
Arise, and give your grief a holiday ! 



BEHOLD, I STAND AT THE 
DOOR." 




HEAR thy knock, O Lord, 

but, woe is me ! 
I have been busy in the 
world's great mart, 
And have no table spread within my 
heart, 
Nor any room made beautiful for thee 
With burnished lamp and sprigs of 
rosemary; 
And should thy stainless hands the 

curtains part, 
Thy tender eyes would miss the 
joyous start, — 
The happy tears, the reverent ecstasy. 



" "Behold, I Stand at the Door," 85 

Neglected is the house thy love doth 

lend; 
The ashes of dead fires bestrew the 

hearth ; 
And still I hear thy voice. O Heavenly 

Friend, 
Come down to sup with me upon the 

earth, 
What if at last thou shouldst the slight 

repay, 
And welcome me as I do thee to-day? 



DEAD BIRDS AND EASTER. 




T was an Easter morning, bright 
and calm, 
And life, not death, was the 
glad theme that day; 
The air was full of spring's delicious 
balm ; 
The maple buds were drooping on 
the way ; 
And one sweet, leaf, with flush of crim- 
son on it, 
Fell on the dead birds of a woman's 
bonnet. 

What say the bells at these good Easter 
times? 
They tell of vanquished death and 
risen life. 



Dead Birds and Easter. 87 

Hush, then, O bells, your inconsistent 

chimes, 
You and the dull old world are hard 

at strife ; 
For surely, when the crimson leaf fell 

on it 
I saw dead birds upon a woman's 

bonnet ! 



What does it cost, — this garniture of 

death? 
It costs the life which God alone can 

give ; 
It costs dull silence where was music's 

breath ; 
It costs dead joy, that foolish pride 

may live. 
Ah, life, and joy, and song — depend 

upon it — 
Are costly trimmings for a woman's 

bonnet ! 



8S Dead Birds and Easter. 

Oh, who would stop the sweet pulse of 

a lark, 
That flutters in such ecstacy of bliss, 
Or lay a robin's bright breast cold and 

stark, 
For such a paltry recompense as this? 
Oh, you who love your babies, think 

upon it, — 
Mothers are slaughtered, just to trim 

your bonnet ! 

Will Herod never cease to rule the 

land, 
That we must slay sweet innocency 

so? 
Is joy so cheap, or happiness sure 

planned? 
Tell me, O friend, who art acquaint 

with woe ! 
Does thy sad heart proclaim no protest 

on it? 
Wouldst thou slay happiness, just for a 

bonnet? 



Dead Birds and Easter. 89 

And must God's choirs that through his 

forests rove, 
Granting sweet matinees to high and 

low, 
Must his own orchestra of field and 

grove — 
Himself their leader — be disbanded 

so? 
Nay, nay ! O God, proclaim thy ban 

upon it, — 
Guard thy dear birds from sport, and 

greed, and bonnet ! 



Their fine-spun hammocks, swinging in 
the breeze, 
Should be as safe as babies' cradles 
are; 
And no rude hand that tears them 
from the trees, 
Or dares a sweet bird's property 
to mar, 



90 Dead Birds and Easter. 

Deserves a woman's touch or kiss 

upon it, 
Unless — she wears dead birds upon 

her bonnet ! 

Dead birds ! and dead for gentle 
woman's sake, 
To feed awhile her vanity's poor 
breath ; 

And yet the foolish bells sweet clamor 
make 

And tell of One whose power hath van- 
quished death ! 

Ah, Easter-time has a reproach upon it 

While birds are slain to trim a woman's 
bonnet! 



PURPLE ASTER. 




RAVELY my sweet flower resists 
Heat of August, autumn cold ; 
And though she has amethysts 
For her dower, and some gold, 
Never roadside beggar passed her 
Without nod from purple aster. 

Dear plebeian, but for thee 

And thy lover, golden-rod, 
Lonesomer the road would be 

Which the country folk must plod ; 
And each little maid and master 
Would regret thee, purple aster ! 

When November winds blow chill, 
And the fields are brown and sear, 

You will find her, cheerful still, 
With her lover standing near, 

While old Winter fast and faster 

Comes to claim brave purple aster. 




AURORA BOREALIS. 

HE northern cheek of the 
heavens, 
By a sudden glory kissed, 
Blushed to the tint of roses, 

And hid in an amber mist, 
And through the northern pathway, 

Trailing her robe of flame, 
The queenly Borealis 

In her dazzling beauty came ! 

I stood and watched the tilting 

Of each dainty, rosy lance, 
As it seemed to pierce the bosom 

Of an emerald expanse; 
And I thought if heaven's gateway 

Is so very fair to see, 
What must the inner glory 

Of the "many mansions" be? 



Aurora Borealis. 93 

I thought of the " Golden City," 

Where the wondrous lights unfurl; 
Of its sea of clearest crystal, 

Of its gates, — each one a pearl ; 
Thought, till the glowing splendor 

Had quietly passed us by, 
And the track of Aurora's chariot 

Bleached out from the northern sky ! 



MEXICO. 



^^ITHIN thy blue-domed Garden 
ffl of Delight, 



't," 1 -* 



Dwells the elusive Spirit of 
Content, 
And makes thy people's lot benefi- 
cent. 

With thee her wings forget their trick 
of flight, 

And brood above thy dwellers day and 
night. 

For thee Euterpe brings her blandish- 
ment, 

And Beauty hath her cornucopia spent. 

Thy winds are sheathed with velvet, and 
their might 

Is tempered to the little naked child. 



Mexico. 95 

God made thee for the old and shelter- 
less, 
And bids fair Nature hide her moods 

morose. 
Thy patios with violets are tiled, 
The air enfolds thee in its warm caress, 
And Summer never bids thee adios! 



l 0>$) 



WEAKNESS. 

HAT ills escape upon the world 

to-day 

Through the loose meshes of 

a pliant will ! 

Weakness is an ignoble mistress ; still, 

While Passion may with bolder weapons 

slay, 
Insidious Weakness doth hold equal 
sway, — 
For with such drugs she does men's 

senses fill, 
They sleep upon her knees, nor dream 
of ill ; 
Then Samson has the old sad price to 
pay. 



Weakness. 97 

From Pilate's hand she drew the sceptre 

down ; 
For while he cried, " What evil hath 

He done?" 
"He feared the people" and King 

Caesar's frown 
More than the anguish of the Sinless 

One, 
And Weakness made him miss the 

truest fame 
That ever stooped to crown a ruler's 

name ! 




SOME VIOLETS. 

EAR friend, I give thee violets ; 
And for my fee, 
The fragrant secret of thy life 
Disclose to me. 



For through it, like a guiding thread, 

I scent the rue, 
And faintly track the odorous feet 

Of heart's-ease too. 

Reach down on patient cords to me 

Thy brimming cup 
Of wise, sweet thoughts, that I may 
drink, 

And thus toil up 

To where thou art, so meekly high, 

So far away, 
I can but kiss my eager hands 

To thee to-day. 



Some Violets. 99 

Or, if I may not reach so high, 

Then be it so ; 
If I may sit beside thy feet, 

'T will not be low. 

And, listening soft, my soul may catch 

In some far sense 
The tuneful impulse of a life 

Serene, intense. 

Ah, me ! I do but spoil my work 

With clumsy phrase ; 
And mar, with my uncultured speech, 

Where I would praise. 

So I will lay my heart's-ease down 

At thy kind feet ; 
Regretting sore their broken stems, 

Their vanished sweet, 

Yet praying that their faded blue 

Some type may be 
Of the fair badge my heart shall wear 

Always for thee ! 



WE ARE UNFAITHFUL 







F man could rule, his love of 
change would mar 
The purple dignity that wraps 
the hills; 
Pluck out from the blue sky some per- 
fect star, 
And set it elsewhere, as his fancy 
wills : 

Train the gnarled apple-tree more 
straightly up ; 
Lift violet's head, so long and meekly 
bowed ; 
With some new odor fill her purple cup, 
And gild the rosy fringes of a cloud. 



We are Unfaithful, 101 

For, mark ! last year I loved the violet 

best, 

And tied her tender colors in my hair ; 

To-day I wear on my inconstant breast 

A crimson rose, and count her just as 

fair. 

We are unfaithful. Only God is true 
To hold secure the landmarks of the 
past, 
To paint year after year the harebell 
blue, 
And in the same sweet mould its 
shape to cast. 

Oh, steadfast Nature, let us learn of 
thee ! 
Thou canst create a new flower at thy 
will, 
And yet through all the years canst 
faithful be 
To the sweet pattern of a daffodil. 



THE BURIAL OF ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN* 



■ 



E mourn for him whose soul on 
heights divine 
Has reached the stature of the 
undefiled, 
In whom a judgment ripe and honor fine 
Were blended with the nature of a 
child ; 
Whose pen with patient toil and godlike 
grace 
Picked out the puzzled knot of 
slavery ; 
Unclasped the gyves that bound a hap- 
less race, 
And dared to write " the bondman 
shall be free." 

* Written by request, for the occasion of 
the depositing of Abraham Lincoln's remains 
in the tomb at Oak Ridge Cemetery, Spring- 
field, 111. 



The Burial of Abraham Lincoln. 103 

The kind humanities that graced his life, 
The tenderness which through his 
justice shone ; 
The sympathy that softened human 
strife 
And made a brother's suffering his 
own ; 
The life which shadowed forth the per- 
fect plan 
Of heaven's law of equity and right : 
Such were the attributes, and such the 
man 
Whom death has hidden from our 
mortal sight. 

His deeds move onward, though his life 
is done ; 
His words still sway us like a mighty 
host. 
" Write down," he said, "my humble 
name as one 
Whose love of country was his highest 
boast." 



104 The Burial of Abraham Lincoln. 

O man of men, whose name we all 
revere ! — 
The dearest name in Liberty's fair 
crown ! — 
Only thy corse rests in these chambers 
here ; 
Death cannot touch thy honor and 
renown ! 

Along the years his gentle words shall 
fall, — 
" With malice towards none, with 
charity for all ; " 
And men shall write in tears upon his 
grave, 
" He bound the nation, and unbound 
the slave." 




CRITICISM. 

SONG-SPARROW who had 
her choice of place 
The orchards over, 
Espied within a bare, unsheltered space 
A tuft of clover; 

And here, almost beneath the passers' 
feet, 
Her nest confided, 
While robin, with a trill of laughter 
sweet, 
Softly derided. 

An English sparrow, curious at her 
choice, 
Peeped boldly under, 
And cried out, in his pert plebeian 
voice, 
" Oh, what a blunder ! " 



106 Criticism. 

But when the roses came, I sought the 
nest 
Of my brown sitter, 
And heard, beneath her patient brood- 
ing breast, 
Young sparrows twitter. 

And when the withered roses strewed 
the ground, 

The fields were ringing 
With the delicious and uncertain sound 

Of young birds singing. 

It was the sparrows, safely fledged ! and 
yet 

To human reason 
That open nest, amid such dangers set, 

Seemed arrant treason. 

And while these birds, serene and un- 
afraid, 
As in a tower, 
Dwelt in the careless nest that they had 
made 
Beneath a flower, 



Criticism. 107 

A wind had rent the sturdy apple-tree, 

Where robin nested ; 
And from their snug, round bed her 
babies three 

Were rudely wrested. 




WHITE VIOLETS. 

E sought for the white violet, 

My little love and I ; 
Among the pastures cool and 
wet, 
Our feet in eager quest were set 
The dainty bloom to spy. 

We knew where purple ones and blue 

Were thick as stars at night; 
But all our forest journeys through 
We had not found a spot where grew 
A violet of white. 



Like some sweet nun, ethereal thin, 

You 'd know her anywhere, 
With snowy wimple folded in 
About her pale and serious chin, 
And head bent as in prayer. 



White Violets. 109 

In firry cloisters, spicy sweet, 
We sought our pale-faced nun. 

No trace was here of her light feet ; 

Only a spider, trim and neat, 
Sat in the door and spun. 

Where the May-apple leaves had spread 

A tent of shining green, 
A moth in his gray hammock stayed, 
A hermit snail sulked in the shade, 

But Violet was not seen. 

The snowy star of Bethlehem 

Twinkled beside our way; 
The forest's fern-embroidered hem 
Glowed with red lilies, stem on stem : 

But where did Violet stay? 

"Why seek white violets alone, 

My love," at last I cried, 
" When banks with purple ones are 

strewn, 
Fit for the cover of a throne, 

And coronet beside?" 



no White Violets. 

" Things won," she said, " with little care 

Are seldom coveted ; 
White violets, like pearls, are rare, 
Like amethysts the purple are, 

I choose the pearls," she said. 

We heard the insects' drowsy croon, 

Bees in the thistles slept ; 
The wood-thrush piped his liquid tune, 
The morn led up to sultry noon, 

The noon to evening crept. 

We found not one white violet; 

We know not where they grow. 
But there are fairer treasures yet, 
Sometimes, in woods and hollows wet, 

As we who found them know. 



IN PRISON. 




OD pity the wretched prisoners, 

In their lonely cells to-day; 
Whatever the sins that tripped 
them, 
God pity them, still I say. 

Only a strip of sunshine, 

Cleft by rusty bars ; 
Only a patch of azure, 

Only a cluster of stars ; 
Only a barren future 

To starve their hope upon ; 
Only stinging memories 

Of love and honor gone; 
Only scorn from women, 

Only hate from men, 
Only remorse to whisper 

Of a life that might have been. 



ii2 /// Prison. 

Once they were little children, 

And perhaps their unstained feet 
Were led by a gentle mother 

Toward the golden street; 
Therefore, if in life's forest 

They since have lost their way, 
For the sake of her who loved them, 

God pity them, still I say. 

O mothers, gone to heaven ! 

With earnest heart I ask 
That your eyes may not look earthward 

On the failure of your task! 
For even in those mansions 

The choking tears would rise, 
Though the fairest hand in heaven 

Should wipe them from your eyes ! 



And you, who judge so harshly, 
Are you sure the stumbling-stone 

That tripped the feet of others 

Might not have bruised your own? 



In Prison. 113 

Are you sure the sad-faced angel 
Who writes our errors down, 

Will ascribe to you more honor 

Than to those on whom you frown? 

Or, if a steadier purpose 

Unto your life is given, 
A stronger will to conquer, 

A smoother path to heaven ; 
If, when temptations meet you, 

You crush them with a smile ; 
If you can chain pale passion 

And keep your lips from guile, — 

Then bless the Hand that crowned you, 

Remembering, as you go, 
'T was not your own endeavor 

That shaped your nature so ; 
And sneer not at the weakness 

Which made a brother fall, 
For the hand that lifts the fallen 

God loves the best of all ! 



ii4 /# Prison. 

And pray for the wretched prisoners 

All over the land to-day, 
That a holy Hand in pity 

May wipe their guilt away. 




MY SLIGHTED GUEST. 

HEAR thy knock, O Lord, but 
woe is me ! 
I have been busy in the world's 
great mart, 
And have no table laid within my 
heart, 
Nor any room made beautiful for thee, 
With burnished lamp, and sprigs of 
rosemary ; 
And should thy stainless hands the 

curtains part, 
Thy tender eyes would miss the joy- 
ous start, 
The happy tears, the reverent ecstasy. 

Neglected is the house thy love doth 
lend : 
Ashes of burnt-out fires bestrew the 
hearth, — 



u6 My Slighted Guest. 

And still I hear thy voice. Oh, heavenly 

friend, 
Come down to sup with me upon the 

earth, 
What if at last thou shouldst the slight 

repay, 
And welcome me as I do thee to-day? 




A FLOWER SERMON. 

FOUND, within a churchyard 

gray, 
A marigold abloom one day, 
And hotly said, " Oh, saucy elf, 
Shame on thy pert and graceless self 
To flaunt thy robes of yellow bloom 
Among the shadows of the tomb,- 
And o'er the faces of the dead 
To nod thy disrespectful head ! 
There is no fitness in thy dress, 
Nor art thou modest, thus to press 
Thy gaudy presence in the place 
Where gladness never shows its face." 

The startled flower replied : " What 

claim 
Hast thou to judge me ? Or what shame 
Should burn my cheeks because I wear 
This yellow dress, which is my share 
Of Nature's brightness, given to grace 
The sombre shadows of this place? 



n8 A Flower Sermon. 

I cannot harm the sleeping dead 
Because I toss my golden head ; 
'T is all God meant for me to do. 
To nod and smile the summer through. 
Nor do I laugh while others weep 
Through any malice, but to keep 
God's perfect plan for my small life, 
Unmarred by dissonance or strife; 
For this I bloom beside a grave, 
And wear the color that he gave." 

I turned my flushing face away; 
Nor will I try another day 
To question any thought or plan 
That God designs for flower or man. 
Some lives are blithe their journey 

through, 
While others early find the rue. 
Whatever color God hath wrought 
Into our life or plan or thought, 
He knows the best. There is no flaw 
Nor dulness in God's perfect law ! 




THE NEW MESSAGE. 

F ghosts of women dead a cen- 
tury 
Steal back to earth, 
Then verily to-night one talked to me 
Upon my hearth. 

And the pathetic minor of her tones, 

Liquid with tears, 
Was like a plaintive murmur from far 
zones 

And distant years. 

" Think not that I am come to you," she 
said, 

" This hallowed night 
To gossip of the secrets of the dead 

Or tell their plight. 



i2o The New Message. 

" I could not sleep; for lo ! the Christ- 
mas bells 
A new tune rang : 
1 New birth to woman ! ' loud the paean 
swells 
In rhythmic clang. 

" ' New birth to woman ! ' Once no right 
had she 
To choose her place; 
Nor place had she save as man's cour- 
tesy 
Did grant her grace. 

" Sometimes, by beauty, trick, or acci- 
dent, 

Grim fate she crossed ; 
But when from her obeisance she unbent, 

Her power was lost. 

" O woman ! fitly robed at last, and 
crowned 
With dignity; 



The New Message. 121 

Walking with lifted head your chosen 
round, 
Unfettered, free; 

" The barbarous traditions of the past 
Loosed from your feet; 

Life's richest goblet held to you at last, 
Brimming and sweet, — 

" Forget not those for whom too late, 
alas ! 

Dawn flushed the sky, 
And to their spirits drain a silent glass. 

Of such am I. 

" Hark to the Christmas bells ! • Good- 
will toward men, 
Peace on the earth ! ' 
'And unto woman ! ' — chime they forth 
again — 
' New birth ! New birth ! ' " 



1 2 2 The New Message. 

If ghosts of women dead a century 

Steal back to earth, 
Then this same hour one came and 
talked to me 

Beside my hearth. 




CHRISTMAS ROSES. 

GAVE into a brown and tired 
hand 
A stem of roses, sweet and 
creamy white. 
I know the bells rang merry tunes 
that night, 
For it was Christmas-time throughout 
the land, 
And all the skies were hung with lan- 
terns bright. 

The brown hand held my roses awk- 
wardly ; 

They seemed more white within their 
dusky vase ; 

The pale face glowed with pleasure 
and with praise : 



124 Christmas Roses. 

" These are for daintier hands than 
mine ! " cried she ; 
" Such beauty was not fashioned for 
my gaze." 

Nay, tired one ! Think, rather, that for 
you 

These flowers have struggled upward 
from the clay 

And journeyed on their patient, leafy 
way 
Brimming their cups with light, per- 
fume, and dew, 

To lay them in your palm this Christ- 
mas day. 




"AVERAGE" PEOPLE, 

HE genius soars far to the foun- 
tain 
That feeds the snow-cap in the 
sky; 
But though our wings break in the 

flying, 
And though our souls faint in the 
trying, 
Our flight cannot follow so high; 
And the eagle swoops not from the 
mountain 
To answer the ground-bird's low cry. 

The world has a gay guerdon ready 
To hail the fleet foot in the race ; 
But on the dull highway of duty, 
Aloof from the pomp and the 
beauty, 



126 "Average" People. 

The stir and the chance of the chase 
Are toilers, with step true and steady, 
Pursuing their wearisome pace. 

False prowess and noisy insistence 
May capture the garrulous throng; 
But the " average " father and 

brother, 
The home-keeping sister and 
mother, 
Grown gentle and patient and strong, 
Shall learn in the fast-nearing distance 
Wherein life's awards have been 



Then here 's to the " average" people, 
The makers of home and its rest ! 
To them the world turns for a 

blessing 
When life its hard burdens is press- 
ing, 
For stay-at-home hearts are the best. 
Birds build if they will in the steeple, 
But safer the eaves for a nest. 




MARCH. 

N the dark silence of her cham- 
bers low, 
March works out sweeter things 
than mortals know. 



Her noiseless looms ply on with busy 

care, 
Weaving the fine cloth that the flowers 

wear. 

She sews the seams in violet's queer 

hood, 
And paints the sweet arbutus of the 

wood. 

Out of a bit of sky's delicious blue 
She fashions hyacinths, and harebells 
too; 



i28 March. 

And from a sunbeam makes a cowslip 

fair, 
Or spins a gown for daffodil to wear. 

She pulls the cover from the crocus beds 
And bids the sleepers lift their drowsy 
heads. 

She marshals the close armies of the 

grass, 
And polishes their green blades as they 

pass. 

And all the blossoms of the fruit-trees 

sweet 
Are piled in rosy shells about her feet. 

Within her great alembic she distils 
The dainty odor which each flower fills. 

Nor does she err, and give to migno- 
nette 
The perfume which belongs to violet. 



March. 129 

Nature does well whatever task she tries, 
Because obedient. Here the secret lies. 

What matter, then, that wild the March 

winds blow? 
Bear patiently her lingering frost and 

snow ! 



For all the sweet beginnings of the 
spring 

Beneath her cold brown breast lie flut- 
tering. 



DISPROVED. 




CANNOT think the dead come 

ever back ; 

Else thou, my mother, wouldst 

not calmly lie 

Within thy grassy tent, but swiftly fly 

Back through the shadowy and lonely 

track 
To seek the child who does thy comfort 
lack. 
The bliss of heaven thou wouldst thy 

soul deny, 
And, though so weary, all its rest 
put by, 
Rather than loneliness my heart should 
rack. 
Do souls return, my mother, and thy 
kiss 
Anoints not my sad eyes? Come back 
and prove 



Disproved. 131 

How deeper than the grave is thy dear 
love ! 
Never till now didst thou the pathway 
miss 
That led to me. Alas, no couriers move 
From heaven to earth ! Thine ab- 
sence proveth this. 



SAILING AWAY. 




AILING away from our friendly 
shores, 
Passing the cloud-ships here 
and there, 
I watch the dip of your feathered oars, 
Wise little mariners of the air! 



With map nor guide-book under your 
wing, 

You safely travel the azure track, 
And reckon the days from fall to spring 

With never a sign of an almanac. 

As I watch your flight to the summer- 
land, 
I long to sail with your merry crew ; 
My caged heart flutters beneath my 
hand 
To try its wings in the upper blue. 



Sailing Away. 133 

But I have no chart of your sun-lit 
shores ; 

And my heart is heavy, it cannot fly. 
Dip, dip, dip with your velvet oars ; 

Happier travellers you than I ! 




IF I COULD CHOOSE. 

WOULD not dare, though it 

were offered me, 
To plan my lot for but a sin- 
gle day, 
So sure am I that all my life would be 
Marked with a blot in token of my 
sway. 

But were it granted me this day to 
choose 
One shining bead from the world's 
jewelled string, 
Favor and fortune I would quick refuse 
To grasp a richer and more costly 
thing. 

With this brave talisman upon my breast, 
I could be ruler of my rebel soul; 

To own this gem is to command the rest : 
It is the Kohinoor called Self-Control J 



If I could Choose. 135 

It is the sesame to broad estates, 

To peaceful slopes and mountains 
blue and fair; 
Calm-browed Content beyond its border 
waits, 
And even Love sits in the sunshine 
there. 

No sullen faces frown upon the street, 
No grated windows, no grim prison 
walls , 
No clanking chains are bound on con- 
vict's feet, 
And on the ear no angry discord 
falls. 

My life's swift river widens to the 
sea, 
The careless babble of the brook is 
past; 
A few late roses blossom still for me, 
But spring is gone, and summer can- 
not last. 



136 If I could Choose. 

Had I begun with morning's rosy 
strength 
To seek the flower that on life's sum 
mit grows, 
I might have found my edelweis at 
length, 
And on the purple heights have 
gained repose. 

Put I have loitered, and the hour is late; 

Worn are my feet, and weary is my 
hand ; 
I can but push ajar the massive gate ; 

I can but look into the Beulah land. 

But, friends, if my poor love could have 
its way, 
And blossom into blessing on each 
soul, 
This is the very prayer that I should 
pray: 
" Grant to men's lives the power of 
self-control ! " 




GOOD-BY. 

O-MORROW night, when the 
flush has fled 
From the beautiful face of day, 
And other lovers with clinging hands 

Under my lattices stray ; 
I shall sit in the dusk alone, 
And you will be far away. 

Perhaps we never shall meet again 
Till our burdens have been laid down, 

And we have passed through the grave's 
dark aisle, 
With its ceilings so low and brown, 

Into the warmth of the Father's smile, 
Or the shadow of his frown. 






138 Good- By. 

And should I reach the end of the road 
Before your journey is done, 

I will lean and listen beside the gate 
For the travellers, one by one ; 

And when I have heard your foot- fall, 
love, 
My heaven will have begun ! 




"MY CUP RUNNETH OVER." 

UST for to-day may I not sing 
For gratitude alone, 
Nor interrupt my praise to 
bring 
Petitions to the throne? 

Just for to-day may I not eat 
From yesterday's full store? 

While gathered manna still is sweet, 
Shall I entreat for more? 

And yet, dear Lord, I cannot live 
One hour without thy care ; 

So in the cup of thanks I give 
Petition, too, must share. 



140 "My Cup Runneth Over." 

I am too ignorant to name 
The blessings best for me ; 

The wisest prayer my lips can frame 
Is simpleness to thee. 

Yet take, God, and Friend of 
friends, 

My chalice, poor and rude, 
Wherein one strong petition blends, — 

Give me more gratitude ! 



IN EXTREMIS. 



■ 



HILE children lean their cheeks 
in drowsy prayer 
Against their mother's knees, 
and all the air 
Is sweet with vesper bell ; 
See the spent day against the sunset 

stand, 
Her smouldering torch down-drooping 
from her hand 
In token of farewell. 

With vague regret I watch each ebbing 

grace. 
Come, twilight, gentle nun, before her 

face 



142 In Extremis, 

Shall cold and ashen be ; 
Fold thy gray veil above her as she lies, 
And sprinkle her with incense from 
thine eyes: 

She hath been kind to me. 



MELANCHOLY DAYS. 




HE vine upon the old church- 
wall 
Has dropped its scarlet gown, 
And stands, a discrowned cardinal. 
In a monk's garb of brown. 

Along each maple-bordered lane, 
Which Autumn late has trod, 

Her wounded feet have left a stain 
On every leaf and sod. 

And here, where its own spicy scent 

Its hiding has betrayed, 
Safe from the frost within the tent 

Some tattered leaves have made, 



144 Melancholy Days. 

Is one belated pink as pale 
As some meek convent nun, 

Whose color fades behind her veil 
For want of wind and sun. 

The golden-rod, a spendthrift gay, 
Who poured for asking hands 

Palms-full of gold, himself to-day 
Rusty and ragged stands ! 

And now, like doves with cold, gray 
breasts, 

The snow-flakes flutter by, 
And brood within the empty nests 

Where young birds used to lie. 

Oh, who would guess that skies so cold 
Hold in their cloaks of gray 

The perfect blue and radiant gold 
Of Spring's delicious May? 



SNOWFLAKES. 




N their errand of purity softly 
they go, 
A million fair doves from the 
clouds swooping low ! 
They light in my window, and brood on 

my sill, 
With milky-white pinions down-folded 
and still. 

They tenderly flutter through by-way 

and street, 
And fold their wings over each stain 

that they meet; 
Until all the hedges, so ragged and 

bare, 
Seem dressed for a bridal resplendent 

and fair. 

IO 



146 Snowflakes. 

Our little brown cottage is battered and 

worn, 
Its hinges are rusty, its shutters are 

torn ; 
But this morning the raggedest roof in 

the town 
Is shingled all over with feathers of 

down ! 

doves, as you light upon meadow 

and plain 

1 wish you could cover man's weakness 

and stain ! 

Yes, I wish and I wish that the fast- 
falling snow 

Could brood with its pinions our faults 
here below ! 



THE RAIN. 

HE brooks leaped up to catch it, 
And the breezes held their 
breath ; 



The lilies sprang up boldly, 

And shook their heads at death. 

The roses blushed to crimson 
At the kisses of the rain ; 

And the sun looked out and saw it 
With a flush of jealous pain. 

The thirsty little river, 

Through the faded grass that led, 
Began to flash and sparkle 

Like a chain of silver thread. 
It tinkled through the meadow 

Where the unraked clover lay, 
Lifting its rosy blossoms, 

As the rain-king passed that way. 



148 The Rain. 

It left its fragrant blessing 

Along the dingy street ; 
It cooled the heated pavement 

For the tread of tired feet ; 
It stole within the chamber 

Where a sick one longed for death, 
And filled the slender nostrils 

With its life-giving breath. 

Upon the fluttering pulses 

It laid a wondrous calm, 
And on the quivering eyelids 

It poured a slumberous balm. 
It drew from the hot forehead 

The burning darts of pain, 
And tired watchers slumbered, 

Lulled by its soft refrain. 




A POMPEIAN PREACHER. 

EAR, dainty little " Maiden 
Hair," 
Whose slender figurej trim 
and fair, 
Apparelled in the softest green, 
Seems fit for court of faerie queen, 

I marvel much that without fear 
Your tender life finds shelter here, 
Where silence, death, and grim decay 
Stalk like pale phantoms day by day ! 

No little child with dancing feet 
Embroiders, by its presence sweet, 
A thread of grace within the gloom 
That curtains every silent room. 



150 A Pompeian Preacher. 

The sunshine, with its soft, warm feet, 
Shrinks back from the unfriendly street, 
And God's free light steals through the 

doors, 
And shivers on the marble floors. 



The timid lizard noiseless glides, 
The slothful snail in calm abides; 
But nothing that is fresh or fair 
Dwells here save thee, dear " Maiden 
Hair!" 

The place where thou dost choose to be 
Was once a hall of equity ; 
A court, where Justice, stern and cold, 
Untouched by Mercy, ruled of old. 

Too delicate art thou, and fair, 
To dwell in such a chilling air; 
And yet, within these ruins gray, 
Thou livest thy perfect life to-day. 



A Pompeian Preacher. 151 

Thou art a preacher, sweet and good, 
And this low niche where thou hast 

stood, 
Thy pulpit, from whose tiny walls 
A sermon, quaint and earnest, falls. 

O patient lives that sunless are, 
From whom bright fortune stands afar ! 
Ye came not to your present state 
By any careless chance ; but Fate, 

Whose name is God, hath planned it so, 
With kinder forethought than we know ! 
And if athwart thy web of gray, 
Thou runnest no brightness day by day, 

Be sure thou hast not wrought so well 
As this shy flower, whose name I tell, — 
This dweller in Pompeian air, — 
My little preacher, " Maiden Hair ! " 




EXPIATION. 

DEATH ! we call thee tyrant 
in our blindness, 
And yet thou showest us full 
gentle ways ; 
And teachest far more charity and kind- 
ness 
Than the gay flatterer, Life, whom 
most we praise ! 

The sword which we had bared for 
angry smiting 
Thou hidest in a sheath of flowers, O 
Death ! 
Ano\ wrongs we fancied needed stern 
requiting 
Fade out like morning mists at thy 
chaste breath. 



Expiation. 153 

Before some vanished friend we swing 
our censer, 
And burn our candles at her empty 
shrine ; 
As if for past neglect to recompense 
her, 
Or memory to drug with perfumes 
fine. 



We wound the living heart, yet clip the 
briers 
From roses that we lay in pulseless 
hands ; 
We build for frozen hearts our tardy 
fires, 
And pour love's chalice upon grave- 
yard sands. 

'T was ever thus. Men scourged the 
living Saviour, 
And plaited thorns among His holy 
hair ; 



154 Expiation, 

Then sought to expiate their mad be- 
havior 
By climbing on their knees some 
sacred stair. 



Life hath one path to heights of expi- 
ation, 
Where souls stung by remorse may 
gather balm ; 
But by no single bound or swift trans- 
lation 
May eager pilgrims reach their purple 
calm. 

The debt thou owest the dead, pay to 
the living; 
For every guilt-spot on thy memory 
Drop into some sad hand that needs 
thy giving 
A shining bead from love's rich 
rosary. 



Expiation. 155 

Haste, if the debt be thine, for time is 
pressing ! 
Soon must the beads upon thy thread 
be spent, 
And thou set down thy cup of dole and 
blessing 
To pass within the curtain of Death's 
tent. 



WHAT WILL IT MATTER? 




HAT will it matter in a little 
while 
That for a day 
We met and gave a word, a touch, a 
smile, 
Upon the way ? 

What will it matter whether hearts were 
brave, 
And lives were true ; 
That you gave me the sympathy I 
crave, 
As I gave you? 

These trifles, — can it be they make or 
mar 
A human life? 
Are souls as lightly swayed as rushes 
are, 
By love, or strife? 



What Will it Matter? 157 

Yea, yea ! a look the fainting heart may 
break, 
Or make it whole ; 
And just one word, if said for love's 
sweet sake, 
May save a soul! 



YOUR BIRTHDAY. 




HIS is the day my friend was 
born to me ! " 
I cried this morning with a 
thrill and start ; 
" O birthday bells, ring out right merrily, 
And hang your banners out, my 
happy heart ! 
It matters not what the storm-signals 

say,— 
It is fair weather in my soul to-day ! " 



Not like all other days is this, O friend, 
And I would make some grateful, 
glad ado ; 
What signal message can I straightway 
send 
To prove I consecrate the hours to 
you ? 



Your Birthday. 159 

I would salute each silent, shadowy 

mast 
Of your good years as they go sailing 

past. 

What have they brought to you, these 

phantom ships? 
Some silver dust, to sprinkle on the 

hair? 
A faded rose, to lay upon the lips? 
Some shining tears? A green grave 

here and there? 
A jagged cross? A tired brain and 

heart? 
Ah, friend, are these of thy rich freight 

a part? 

Or are they pirate ships whose dark 
offence 
Is stealing from us youth so fair and 
good? 

The "sweet first time" of glad expe- 
rience 



160 Your Birthday. 

Of hope, and dewy love, and parent- 
hood? 
Is it for this their misty sails unfurl, 
Just to make plunder of our gold and 
pearl? 

Nay, nay ! if so, more fit were funeral 

knells 
And wreaths of cypress, — one for 

each dead year, — 
Than the sweet jangle of the joyous 

bells, 
The glad " God bless you ! " and the 

birthday cheer. 
God guides the years, and freights them 

as is best; 
Let us have patience till we know the 

rest. 

Ah, how like little children we are led 
Up to the threshold of the future 
years, 
To every waiting sorrow blindfolded, 



Your Birthday. 161 

And all unconscious of to-morrow's 

tears ! 
And when to-morrow comes, we find it 

still 
Holds just the strength sufficient for 

its ill! 

O gentle Trust ! if to possess thy grace 
Needed long journeys to some ancient 

shrine, 
Though faint and weary, we would seek 

the place 
From rosy dawn till midnight stars 

should shine ! 
But they who find thy presence know 

full well 
That in no far-off country dost thou 

dwell. 

Oh, what can not her gentle presence 
do? 
It is a flower upon sick pillows 
thrown ; 



1 62 Your Birthday. 

The rose that hides the rankling thorn 

from view ; 
The velvet moss upon old towers 

grown. 
It is a box of ointment rare and sweet, 
Which we may break upon the Holy 

feet. 

And now, dear friend, I think you 

understand, 
That if to-day some happy prayer of 

mine 
Could bring a white gift fluttering to 

your hand, 
I would not ask for things that flash 

and shine, — 
But that upon your threshold God 

might lay 
This flower of trust to crown your 

natal day, 



EASTER DAY. 




H] SAD, sad soul, fling wide your 
doors, 
And make your windows cur- 
tainless ; 
Strew odours on your silent floors, 
And all your walls with lilies dress ! 

Throw open every sombre place ; 

Roll every hindering stone away ; 
Let Easter sunshine gild your face, 

And bless you with its warmth to-day! 

Let friends renew each bygone hour; 

Let children fling the world a kiss; 
And every hand tie in some flower, 

To crown a day so good as this ! 



1 64 Easter Day. 

And whether skies are sad or clear, 
We '11 give the day to joy and song; 

For since the Christ is surely here. 
All things are right, and naught is 
wrong ! 



O BELLS IN THE STEEPLE. 




BELLS in the steeple, 

Ring out to all people 
That Christ has arisen, — that 
Jesus is here ! 
Touch heaven's blue ceiling 
With your happy pealing; 
O bells in the steeple, ring out full and 
clear ! 

O soft April showers, 
Call out the young flowers, 
Touch each little sleeper, and bid her 
obey; 
Set daffodils blowing, 
And fresh grasses growing, 
To thrill the old world on this new 
Easter-dav ! 



1 66 O Bells in the Steeple. 

O lilies so stately, — 
Like maids tall and shapely, — 
Christ loved you, and talked of your 
beauty of old ; 
Stand up in your places, 
And bend your white faces, 
While swinging before Him your censers 
of gold ! 



O violets tender, 
Your shy tribute render ! 
Tie round your wet faces your soft 
hoods of blue ; 
And carry your sweetness, 
Your dainty completeness, 
To some tired hand that is longing 
for you. 

O velvet-bloomed willows, 
Go comfort sick pillows 
With visions of meadow-lands, peace- 
ful and brown ! 



Bells in the Steeple. 167 

The breath of Spring lingers 
Within your cold fingers, 
And the brook's song is caught in your 
fringes of down. 

O world, bowed and broken 
With anguish unspoken, 
Take heart and be glad, for the Lord is 
not dead ! 
On some bright to-morrow, 
Your black cloud of sorrow 
Will break in a sweet rain of joy on 
your head. 

O bells in the steeple, 
Ring out to all people 
That Christ has arisen, — that Jesus is 
here ! 
Touch heaven's blue ceiling 
With your happy pealing; 
O bells in the steeple, ring out full and 
clear ! 



IN SILENCE. 



|^%g|S loving friends sit sometimes 
^1:^ hand in hand, 

^ ' Nor mar with sound the sweet 

speech of their eyes ; 
So in soft silence let us oftener kneel, 
Nor try with words to make God 
understand. 
Longing is prayer; upon its wings we 
rise 
To where the airs of heaven around 
us steal. 



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